Age of Villains
Aerrow plummeted through the sky. The wind whistled through his ears, masking the sound of the shocked gasps and cries of the crowd below him as the yellow-dirt ground rushed up to greet him. He thought he heard someone scream his name, but was sure he had imagined the sound. His arms scrabbled desperately through the air as if there could be anything he could hold onto. The broken wing of his glider flapped pathetically and he hit the ground with a sickening thud, bouncing almost comically across the dirt until finally stopping. He propped himself up on an elbow to find himself looking up at a tall, dark-haired man he had only just been fighting.
An eerie silence fell on Terra Atmosia, the crowd hushed as the right-hand man of Master Cyclonis drew his sword and held it to the young Sky Knight's throat. He looked up at the Dark Ace. The man's mouth formed words, his gaze scornful, but Aerrow did not hear his speech, instead his eyes desperately searched for a shred of humanity left in the red-eyed gaze. He thought he saw it there in the flicker of recognition as their eyes met briefly and Aerrow allowed himself to hope. He felt like it would be appropriate to beg. The sky grew dark and clouded, and more cries erupted from the crowd as the Talons' rides skidded to a halt. One stepped forward, presenting the Dark Ace with the aurora stone – he pocketed it, and turned to face the boy lying in the dirt.
'This is the part where I claim my victory,' the Dark Ace hissed.
Whatever humanity Aerrow had seen, if it was ever there at all, had wiped clean from the Dark Ace's cold face. It was a face of a calculating killer. Merciless.
The Dark Ace's sword plunged into Aerrow's chest. There were shocked screams, and then a horrifying silence broken only by a young girl crying the boy's name. Her sobs could be heard over the Cyclonians' engines as they flew away into the sky; back towards their Master to tell of their victory against the so-called "new Storm Hawks".
The aurora stone was gone. All hope was lost; lost when the life left the boy who lay in a pool of deep red blood that stained the yellow dirt like violent paint as his friends knelt over his body. They didn't know what to do. The Cyclonians had won, just like that.
No mercy.